Ruler of the World

Chapter 25

The citadel’s massive walls — at least ten feet thick in most places — were a good defence against the winter storms that had continued unabated since Salim’s arrival in Kabul two days ago, and a fire of crackling khanjak logs was burning in the hearth, now and then spitting showers of red-gold sparks. All the same Salim felt chilled to his very bones. He drew closer to the fire to warm his hands as he waited for Saif Khan, who had gone to give instructions to his steward, to return.

While attendants piled yet more wood on the fire, Salim turned his head to gaze at the low platform at the far end of the long room and the throne which stood on it. Its red velvet cushions were faded and its gilded feet and high curved back a little tarnished. In the distant Moghul palaces of Lahore or Fatehpur Sikri far beyond the frozen passes such a shabby item would be unthinkable, but Salim looked at it with respect. This was where his great-grandfather, the future first Moghul emperor, had sat as the King of Kabul to dispense justice. Perhaps it was from this very seat that he had announced his intention to invade Hindustan and claim it for the Moghuls. In the flickering light of torches in sconces high on the rough stone walls, Salim could almost conjure an image of Babur deep in thought, his sword Alamgir at his waist. If Babur could leave Kabul to satisfy his ambitions perhaps it was still possible for his great-grandson to do the same and fulfil the Sufi seer’s prophecy, Salim comforted himself. Just as soon as these snows eased he would visit Babur’s grave in its hillside garden above Kabul. .

The bejewelled luxury of the Moghul palaces of Hindustan with their intricately carved sandstone, scented fountains and elaborate ritual seemed separated by more than distance from this stark stronghold where Babur had nurtured his plans of conquest. Of course, the Kabul citadel, perched on a rocky promontory above the town, had never been intended as a palace to impress the cultured. It had been built to awe the local tribes and to control the trade routes. Kabul’s wealth depended on the vast, swaying caravans that passed through each year with their cargos of jewels, sugar, cloth and spices, and that wealth must be protected. Even now, the Kabul revenues were important to the Moghul treasury.

‘Forgive me, Highness, for leaving you alone.’ Saif Khan returned with a swish of his fox-lined robes. He was a stout, genial-looking middle-aged man, though a long white scar on his left cheek and some ragged frills of shiny, pinkish flesh where his left ear had been would have shown he was a fighter even if Salim hadn’t known of his years of campaigns on the empire’s frontiers which had led his father to appoint him governor. ‘If you will allow me, I would like to introduce the other members of my council to you.’

‘Of course.’

Saif Khan whispered to an attendant who at once went to the door and ushered in the six counsellors. The governor introduced each in turn — the master-of-horse, the chief quartermaster, the commander of the garrison. . As they bowed, Salim surveyed them with only polite interest. But then Saif Khan uttered a name that made him pay more attention. ‘This is Ghiyas Beg, Treasurer of Kabul.’ Ghiyas Beg. . where had he heard that name before? Salim stared at the tall, angular man bending before him. As the man raised his head again and Salim looked into his fine-boned face — less starved than when he had last seen it but still gaunt — the years rolled back. He was a boy again, listening transfixed in Fatehpur Sikri to Ghiyas Beg standing before Akbar and telling his tale of his desperate flight from Persia, of how he had nearly abandoned his newborn daughter beneath a tree. .

‘I remember when you came to Fatehpur Sikri, Ghiyas Beg.’

‘I am honoured.’

‘How are your family?’

‘All in good health, Highness. The mountain air of Kabul has been good for them.’

‘Including your daughter?’ Salim was struggling to remember her name. ‘Mehrunissa, I think you called her?’

‘Indeed, Highness. Mehrunissa, “Sun Among Women”. She is well.’

‘You’ve clearly prospered here. My father sent you to Kabul as an assistant but now you are the treasurer,’ Salim said, and continued a little awkwardly: ‘He has sent me to Kabul to satisfy myself that it is being properly governed and in particular that all the revenues are being correctly accounted for and sent to the imperial treasuries.’

‘I will stake my life that not a single shahrukki has gone astray.’

‘I am glad to hear it, but I will still need to inspect your records.’

‘Of course, Highness. I can bring my ledgers here, or if you prefer, when these storms ease, perhaps you would honour my home with a visit?’

‘I will.’

When Salim was alone with the governor once more he stared for a while into the flames. Something about Ghiyas Beg intrigued him, just as it had the first time he had seen him. The smooth words falling so effortlessly from his tongue could have been spoken by any courtier. However, Salim hadn’t missed the look on Ghiyas Beg’s face when he had questioned him about the revenues. The Persian seemed deeply protective of his honour. . or was he being suspiciously over-vehement in his protestations of injured innocence?

Something his grandmother had once said about strange patterns in life — and about Ghiyas Beg in particular — came back to him. Hadn’t she predicted that the Persian might one day become important to the Moghuls? But the question was how? For better or for worse? Looking up, he found Saif Khan watching him curiously. What was he thinking? That here was the wayward son of the emperor, sent to Kabul as punishment for his sins? He must know the tour of inspection was a mere pretence and that Salim had left the court in the deepest disgrace. Gossip travelled quickly even if Abul Fazl hadn’t written to Saif Khan as Salim was sure he had, perhaps even instructed him to provide reports on his behaviour. To cover his confusion he asked, ‘Tell me more about Ghiyas Beg. Is he as good and honest a treasurer as he claims?’

‘The emperor has no better servant in Kabul. He has improved the way in which tolls are levied on the caravans and also the gathering of taxes from the towns and villages. During the five years that I have been governor, he has increased income by nearly a half.’

Perhaps Ghiyas Beg was as guileless as he had appeared today and in his original audience before Akbar all those years ago, Salim thought. He realised too there was nothing to be gained from continuing his inner debate about whether he was reporting on Saif Khan’s conduct or the other way round. He must behave as a conscientious inspector of the collection of his father’s taxes and the administration of his province. That would be his only hope of securing a return to Akbar’s favour.

The snow had ceased and a temporary thaw meant that the battlements of the citadel were no longer covered in ice when Salim rode down the ramp, outriders ahead and Zahed Butt and his bodyguard close behind. He had invited Suleiman Beg to go with him to Ghiyas Beg’s house in the town below but his milk-brother had laughingly asked to be excused on the grounds that he had no head for figures.

A chill wind was driving small, fleecy white clouds across a pale blue winter sky as Salim approached the town walls. Beyond, smoke was rising from the caravanserais where only a few hardy travellers were billeted. When winter was over and all the passes were open again, Kabul would be teeming and walking its streets a man might hear twenty, perhaps thirty, different languages, or so Saif Khan had told him. Unlike Suleiman Beg, Saif Khan had been eager to accompany Salim, as he always was wherever he wanted to go, but Salim was suspicious of Saif Khan’s motives. Was he trying to keep an eye on him? In any case, he was weary of the governor and his repetitive stories and crude jokes. He would see Ghiyas Beg alone.

Ghiyas Beg’s house was a large two-storey building occupying one side of a tree-shaded square. The treasurer, turbaned in green silk and flanked by attendants, was waiting outside to greet him and Salim saw that a length of purple velvet had been spread from the marble block where he was to alight over the puddles on the thawing ground to the doors of polished chestnut wood that led into the house.

‘Highness, you are welcome.’ Ghiyas Beg waved away a groom and himself held Salim’s right stirrup as he dismounted. ‘Please follow me.’

Signalling his bodyguard and the other soldiers to remain outside, Salim accompanied Ghiyas Beg through the doors and across a courtyard into a large, luxuriously furnished chamber in which two braziers of coals were glowing. Cream brocade hangings covered the walls while bolsters and cushions of sapphire-blue velvet were set against them. The carpets were soft, thick and richly coloured, better than any in the citadel — in fact, the best Salim had seen since leaving his father’s palace in Lahore.

‘You live well,’ he said. The magnificence of Ghiyas Beg’s residence had reignited his doubts. Even if he was the best tax collector Saif Khan had ever seen, was Ghiyas Beg still creaming off some of the revenue for himself?

‘I am glad you like my home. I’ve tried to furnish it the way my house in Persia was, importing painted and patterned tiles and so forth. So many caravans pass through Kabul, a man can find or order anything. Please, take some refreshment. The grapes grown around Kabul make good wine — almost as good as the red wines of Ghazni to the south — or perhaps some rose-flavoured sherbet? My wife is skilled at distilling the fragrance of the roses she grows so that even in the harshest months of winter we can be reminded that the summer warmth will return.’

‘Thank you. Some sherbet.’

An attendant knelt before Salim with a bowl of water in which to rinse his hands and a scented towel on which to dry them while another poured some sherbet into a silver cup. Salim took the cup and drank. Ghiyas Beg was right. The sherbet indeed tasted and smelled of roses and of summer.

‘I have the ledgers ready, Highness. What do you want to examine first? The caravan revenues or the village taxes?’

‘A little later,’ said Salim, deciding to draw Ghiyas Beg out and thus perhaps to catch him off his guard. ‘First tell me about your life here. I’m curious.’

‘About what aspect, Highness?’

‘You are a cultured, educated man. How do you manage to live in such a place as Kabul? What possible satisfaction or interest can you find in its squabbling tribes, its blood feuds and its greedy merchants?’

‘A man can find interest in anything if he sets his mind to it. And remember, Highness, I’ve cause to be grateful even to be in such a remote place as this. When your father sent me and my family here, he rescued us from penury and gave us hope. This may not be Isfahan or Lahore, but I have worked hard, tried to do my duty, and I have prospered. The emperor pays his servants well. By now I am wealthy enough to take my family back to Persia but my loyalty is to your father and I will stay here for as long as I can serve him well. Perhaps one day he will remember me and appoint me to a post in one of his great cities — Delhi or Agra, maybe.’

Ghiyas Beg seemed almost too good to be true, thought Salim. ‘And if not?’ he asked.

‘I am content. When a man has seen death reaching out for himself and his family and escapes, he learns to be thankful for what he has and not to make himself unhappy by yearning for what he cannot have. That is a lesson to us all, Highness, whatever our station in life.’

Salim started. Ghiyas Beg wasn’t referring to his own position, was he? The treasurer’s expression remained respectful. In any case, he himself could never be that patient and philosophic, Salim thought. Every time an imperial post rider clattered up the ramp into the Kabul citadel, his leather satchel bulging with letters and despatches, he hoped that one was from his father recalling him to court, but so far he had received not one word from Akbar. The only official letters to him had been from Abul Fazl asking nitpicking questions about his reports on subjects such as the state of Kabul’s defences or the condition of the road to Kandahar.

‘Please try one of these sweetmeats. In Persia it is traditional to offer them to our guests. My wife made them from almonds and honey with her own hands.’

‘You have only one wife?’

‘She is like a part of me. I need no other.’

‘You are a lucky man. Few can say that,’ said Salim, thinking how much Ghiyas Beg’s words reminded him of his grandmother’s description of her marriage to his grandfather, Humayun. ‘But doesn’t your wife long to return to Persia?’

‘She feels as I do that we should be content with our lot. God has been merciful.’

Salim stared at the treasurer, impressed despite himself by the man’s quiet dignity and patience and again recalling Hamida and how she had often told him that their troubles had only strengthened the bonds between herself and Humayun. He could only wish that his own ties with any of his wives were so strong. But he reminded himself he had come to Ghiyas Beg’s house to question him about how he carried out his responsibilities, not about his private life.

‘Bring me your ledgers, Ghiyas Beg, and explain in detail how you levy the toll on the caravans that pass through Kabul. Saif Khan told me that you have made some improvements. .’

The warm night air was pungent with the smell of dung fires, spices and baking bread as the citizens of Kabul prepared their evening meal on the flat roofs of the houses Salim passed on his way through the streets. Over recent weeks as spring had blossomed he had been so many times to Ghiyas Beg’s house that his grey stallion could probably find its way there blindfolded. ‘What do you and that old man find to talk about? You spend more time with him than I ever did with my father,’ Suleiman Beg had asked earlier that day, just as he had on many previous occasions. He was amazed that Salim sometimes preferred the Persian’s company to the chance to hunt wild asses or go hawking in the hills around Kabul.

It was something Salim could not quite explain, even to himself. In Ghiyas Beg he had discovered a cultured, civilised man — a man of ideas and spiritual depth who, he sensed, felt as imprisoned and unfulfilled as he did but, unlike himself, could still find contentment. His visits to his house no longer had anything to do with checking that the treasurer was efficient and honest and indeed a great asset to his father. Ghiyas Beg had quickly proved his records accurate, and that his luxuriously furnished house had been financed by the salary due to his rank and a few trading ventures he had engaged in over the years. However, the two men had found, despite the disparity in their ages, that they shared many interests, from the natural world to the changing style of miniature painting under influences from Persia and Europe.

Tonight, however, was different. It was the first time Ghiyas Beg had invited Salim to dine at his house. Emerging from a street so narrow that the upper storeys of the timber-framed mud-brick houses on each side almost touched, Salim saw that the square where the treasurer lived was ablaze with light. Lanterns of coloured glass — red, green, blue and yellow — swayed from the boughs of budding almond and apricot trees. On either side of the entrance to the house stood giant candelabras four feet high in which burned a mass of candles. Crystals of golden frankincense smouldered in jewelled incense burners.

Ghiyas Beg was, as usual, waiting to greet him, dressed more magnificently than Salim had ever seen him. His silk robe was embroidered with flowers and butterflies and from a gold chain round his lean waist hung an ivory-hilted dagger in a coral and turquoise inlaid scabbard. On his head was a tall velvet cap like those worn by the envoys from the Shah of Persia Salim remembered seeing at Akbar’s court.

‘Greetings, Highness. Please follow me to where we will eat.’

Salim followed his host through the courtyard, the walls of which were covered with tiles painted with cream and mauve flowers, and down a passage leading into a second, smaller courtyard spread with rugs. A silk canopy had been erected against one wall, beneath which was a low divan piled with cushions. As Salim seated himself Ghiyas Beg clapped his hands and at once servants appeared, some bringing water for Salim to rinse his hands while others spread a white damask cloth over which they sprinkled dried rose petals.

‘I have had dishes prepared from my Persian homeland. I hope you will like them,’ Ghiyas Beg said.

The food was some of the most delicious Salim had ever eaten. Pheasants simmered in a pomegranate sauce, lamb stuffed with apricots and pistachios, rice spiced with long golden strands of saffron and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds bright as rubies, hot wafer-thin bread to dip into pastes of smoked and pounded aubergines and chickpeas. Ghiyas Beg’s attendants kept his glass filled with wine from the Khwaja Khawan Said region of Kabul, celebrated for its fire and flavour.

Salim noticed that the treasurer himself ate and drank sparingly and said little except to acknowledge Salim’s frequent compliments. But when the dishes had been cleared away and grapes, musk melons and silvered almonds laid before them, Ghiyas Beg said, ‘Highness, I have a favour to request. May I present my wife to you?’

‘Of course,’ Salim replied, realising how great a compliment this was to their friendship. Usually only male relations met the women of the household. He had been wondering whether Ghiyas Beg’s wife and daughter had been watching through the fretted wooden screen he could see high in the wall opposite where he was sitting.

‘You are gracious, Highness.’ Ghiyas Beg whispered to an attendant, who hastened away. A few minutes later, a tall slight figure entered the courtyard through an arched doorway. She was veiled, but above the gauzy material Salim saw a pair of fine eyes and a wide, smooth forehead. She was obviously younger than Ghiyas Beg who, as she touched her hand to her breast and briefly bowed her head, said, ‘Highness, this is Asmat, my wife.’

‘I thank you for your hospitality, Asmat. I have not tasted better food since coming to Kabul.’

‘You do us great honour, Highness. Many years ago your father the emperor saved our family from poverty, perhaps worse. I am glad to repay even a tiny portion of the debt we owe you.’ She spoke court Persian as elegantly as her husband, in a voice both musical and low.

‘My father acquired a good and loyal servant when he sent your husband here. There is no debt.’

Asmat looked towards her husband. ‘Highness, we have another request. May our daughter Mehrunissa dance for you? Her teachers, who have trained her in the Persian style, say that she is not unskilled.’

‘Certainly.’ Salim lay back against the cushions and took another sip of the dark red wine. He would be intrigued to see this girl who had been abandoned beneath a tree to the jackals and the elements.

A trio of musicians — two drummers and a flautist — entered the courtyard. The drummers at once struck up a compelling rhythm, and as the piper put his instrument to his lips a languorous melody issued from it. Then came a tinkling of bells keeping perfect time with the musicians and Mehrunissa ran into the courtyard. Like her mother she was veiled but above the veil her eyes were as large and lustrous as Asmat’s. She was wearing a loose robe of blue silk the colour of a kingfisher’s wing. As she raised her arms and began to revolve, Salim saw that in each hand she was holding a golden ring hung with tiny silver bells.

For a moment a vision of the last woman to dance before him — Anarkali — swam before him, bringing with it the sense of shame and regret her memory still conjured. But Mehrunissa’s dance was unlike anything Salim had ever seen in Hindustan, slow, graceful and controlled. Every gesture of her slender hands and fingers, the way she held her head, the stately sway of her body beneath the blue silk, the beat of her henna-painted feet on the ground, compelled attention. Salim leaned forward as the music grew louder. Mehrunissa flung back her head as if filled with the joy of the dance and then quite suddenly the music ceased and she was kneeling decorously at his feet.

‘That is one of the shah’s favourite dances, celebrating the coming of spring,’ said Ghiyas Beg, face soft with pride.

‘You are as gifted a dancer as your father said. Please rise.’

Mehrunissa got gracefully to her feet, but as she reached to push back a stray lock of shining black hair she caught a corner of her veil and it fell away, exposing her full mouth, a small straight nose and the soft curve of her cheeks. For a moment she looked straight into Salim’s eyes before quickly refastening her veil.

‘You only saw her for a few moments.’

‘It was enough, Suleiman Beg.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t had a woman for a while.’

Salim glared at his milk-brother. Since leaving Lahore and his wives and haram, the memory of Anarkali’s tumbling golden hair and voluptuous body — all that beauty to which he had brought such ruin — had curbed his desire, it was true, but his abstinence had certainly not been total and wasn’t why he felt like this.

‘Are you sure it’s not because for some unfathomable reason you like her father? You think her mind might be like his and her body female perfection.’ Suleiman Beg smiled and cracked a walnut between his teeth, flinging the shell out of the open casement in Salim’s apartments overlooking the courtyard. ‘What’s really so special about her?’

‘Everything. The way she moved — her grace. She was like a queen.’

‘Big breasts?’

‘She’s not a whore from the bazaars.’

‘Then I repeat my question because I just don’t understand. From what you say, a veiled woman did a brief dance for you and all of a sudden your loins are on fire. .’

‘I saw her face. Suleiman Beg, it reminds me of how my grandmother speaks of Humayun’s feelings when he first saw her. There was something about it. . I can’t get her out of my mind.’

‘I thought you said she was veiled.’

‘For a moment her veil slipped.’

‘That was clever of her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s the daughter of a petty official living in an outpost of your empire.’ Suleiman Beg spat a tough piece of nut on to the floor but Salim knew it was Kabul he’d really like to spit on. Suleiman Beg was bored here and couldn’t wait to return to Hindustan. ‘That was her chance to catch your eye. Much better to be an imperial concubine than left to fester here.’

Perhaps Suleiman Beg was right, Salim thought. In his mind’s eye he recaptured that moment when her veil had slipped. Had it been by design? And had she delayed raising it again just long enough for him to see her face? If so, then all to the good. It meant she wanted him too. He stood up. ‘I don’t desire her merely as a concubine. I wish her to be my wife.’

Dusk was falling when an attendant brought Salim word that Ghiyas Beg had come to the citadel. As soon as the Persian was shown into his apartment, Salim said eagerly, ‘Ghiyas Beg, I summoned you here not as your prince but — or so I hope — as your future son-in-law. I want to marry your daughter. Give me Mehrunissa and I will make her first among my wives and first in my heart.’

Ghiyas Beg’s eyes widened. Instead of the smiles Salim had anticipated, he looked agitated.

‘What is it, Ghiyas Beg?’

‘Highness, what you ask is impossible.’

‘I don’t understand. . I thought you would welcome my offer.’

‘I do, Highness. It is a great honour, an unimaginable honour. But I must repeat what I said. It is out of the question.’

‘Why?’ Without realising what he was doing Salim stepped forward and grabbed Ghiyas Beg’s thin arm above the elbow.

‘My daughter is already promised.’

‘To whom?’

‘To one of your father’s commanders in Bengal, Sher Afghan. As a man of honour, I cannot break off their betrothal. I am truly sorry, Highness.’

Chapter 26

Oblivion

‘Highness, a letter has arrived for you from Lahore.’

Salim’s qorchi handed him a green leather pouch secured by a twist of gold wire from which the imperial seal was dangling. Inside, Salim found a thick piece of paper folded into four and opened it to see Abul Fazl’s familiar handwriting — lines and lines of it. As usual, it was only towards the bottom of the page after all the empty airy courtesies that Salim found the real meat of what his father’s chronicler had to say:

His gracious Majesty the emperor, in his great and fathomless mercy commands you to return immediately to Lahore where he has fresh tasks he wishes you to undertake. He asks me to say that he hopes that from this time forward your footsteps will return to the path of righteousness and you will become a dutiful son who will never again deviate in the manner that has so distressed and disappointed him

.

Salim handed the letter to Suleiman Beg, who grinned broadly as he read it. ‘I was afraid we might be stuck here for years.’

‘It’s typical that the style and even the seals are Abul Fazl’s and not my father’s. Nevertheless, I didn’t expect to be recalled after only eight months. I’m surprised.’

‘You might look more cheerful about it. You’re not still obsessed with that Persian girl, are you? When you get back to your wives and haram you’ll realise she was no more than a passing fancy because you were bored.’

Salim considered. How did he really feel? His relationship — friendship even — with Ghiyas Beg had made his stay in Kabul much less irksome than it might have been, and after seeing Mehrunissa she had occupied his mind as much as thoughts of returning to court. But since Ghiyas Beg’s rejection of his offer of marriage to her a constraint had inevitably sprung up between them. Salim’s visits to the Persian’s house had grown less frequent and of course he had not seen Mehrunissa again. He had, however, discovered that she was not due to wed Sher Afghan until the following year. Perhaps back in Lahore he could persuade his father to use his influence with Ghiyas Beg. If the emperor himself commanded Mehrunissa’s betrothal to be broken off, Ghiyas Beg as a loyal subject could only obey. .

The long journey back down through the passes from Kabul, across the Indus and the other mighty rivers of the Punjab, had gone swiftly and well, and unencumbered by a slow baggage train Salim had reached Lahore in only six weeks. At each passing mile his spirits had risen with the heat of the plains around him. However, as he stood in Akbar’s private apartments, alone before his father for the first time since his banishment, Salim felt himself trembling with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

‘I am glad to see you safely returned from Kabul.’ Akbar spoke first, his face inscrutable. ‘I regret that we parted in anger but you left me no choice but to punish you. I hope that during your absence you reflected on the duty that a son owes to his father and that in future you will behave accordingly.’

What about the duty a father owes to his son, thought Salim, but all he said was, ‘I know what is due to you and I am grateful that you have forgiven me my past errors and recalled me to the court.’

‘Your errors were grave. I had intended you to stay longer in Kabul, but your grandmother persuaded me to send for you.’ Akbar’s tone was still stiff.

‘Father, Abul Fazl’s letter mentioned you had further tasks for me. I am eager to serve you. . I. .’

‘In due course,’ Akbar interrupted him. ‘You acquitted yourself well in Kabul — Abul Fazl tells me your reports were thorough and Saif Khan confirmed your good behaviour — but I have not decided what I wish you to do next.’

So Saif Khan had indeed been spying on him. Salim persisted, ‘A governorship perhaps, like Murad?’

‘There is no need for haste. I wish to see whether you maintain your good conduct, and I will tell you my decision about any appointment if and when the time comes.’

Salim tried not to show his disappointment but knew it must be written on his face. He had been hoping his return could mark a new beginning in his relationship with his father, but yet again it seemed he would have to be patient. Perhaps his grandmother would again use her influence on his behalf as she had to hasten his return. However, even if this was not the ideal time, there was something else he could not delay in asking Akbar, and he must ask in person.

‘Father, may I request a favour?’

‘What is it?’ Akbar looked genuinely surprised.

‘I wish to take a further wife.’

‘Who?’ Akbar’s expression was now one of absolute astonishment.

‘The daughter of Ghiyas Beg, your treasurer in Kabul,’ Salim said, and before Akbar could respond continued, ‘but there is a difficulty. She is already promised to one of your commanders in Bengal, Sher Afghan, and Ghiyas Beg believes it would be dishonourable to go back on the arrangement. But if you intervened, Ghiyas Beg and Sher Afghan would have to obey you and. .’

‘Enough! I had hoped that your months in exile would have taught you some sense, but I see I was wrong. It is bad enough that you want to marry a woman of obscure family — an alliance that can bring no possible benefit to our dynasty — but it beggars belief that you can then ask me to interfere in the lives of my subjects to bring it to pass.’

‘It’s not a passing whim. Her name is Mehrunissa. I can’t get her from my mind.’

‘You will have to. I will not disrupt the marriage plans of Sher Afghan, a loyal, brave fighter, so you can satisfy your insatiable lusts.’

‘It’s not lust. .’

‘Really? It seems to me you have developed a taste for other men’s women.’ Akbar’s tone was brutal and his reference to Anarkali stung. Salim swallowed. What could he say in his defence that Akbar would believe? If he compared his passion to Humayun’s on first seeing Hamida, as he had so often done in his own mind, it would only enrage his father.

After a moment’s painful silence Akbar said wearily, ‘Leave me. You make me despair. I had hoped our reunion would be happier but I can see you have not conquered your vices. You still need to learn self-control. Young as he is, your son Khurram understands the difference between right and wrong better than you.’

As Salim walked swiftly from his father’s apartments tears of anger and hurt pricked his eyelids. Akbar never tried to understand him and seemingly never would. His father did, however, choose his words carefully for their effect. Was his reference to Khurram a hint that his own son was better qualified to rule than he was? Surely not. . however well omened his birth, Khurram was no more than a precocious child.

Salim opened the painted wooden box, took out a glass jar and held it up to the light with hands that were not quite steady. Good. There were enough opium pellets to last him until morning. Flipping up the jar’s silver lid, Salim tipped two pellets into a goblet then poured in some rosewater. He smiled as he watched the pellets dissolve, unleashing their smoky grey trail until only a few stubborn granules remained. He swirled the water with his index finger then raised the goblet to his lips. After a few minutes, feeling the opium begin to do its wonderful work, he took another few swallows of the strong red wine he had been drinking all day.

That felt even better. Salim lay back on a silk-covered mattress by the balustrade enclosing the balcony of his apartments. The sounds of horses’ hooves and men’s voices rising from the courtyard below seemed to come from farther and farther away as he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the delicious languor that in recent weeks had become increasingly necessary to his well-being. It was an antidote both to his father’s cold equivocation whenever he asked about an appointment and to his sons’ discomfort and embarrassment whenever he broached any topic other than the most banal with them. They had changed towards him while he had been away. Though they were unfailingly polite, he sensed no warmth or intimacy.

Neither his mother Hirabai nor his grandmother Hamida had had anything constructive to offer either. His mother had voiced only contempt for Akbar and the Moghuls in general. Hamida, however sympathetic and loving her tone, had only had kind words of consolation and the advice to wait. She had reiterated how much his affair with Anarkali had hurt Akbar and how much he detested the thought that it would be the subject of common gossip among the people and damage the image they had of him as all-powerful. Consequently she had had great difficulty in securing Akbar’s agreement to his return from banishment so she could do no more for the present.

The opium and the wine relaxed Salim’s mind and body. They blunted painful thoughts, soothed his aching disappointments and transported him to places where nothing seemed to matter much. He felt a small insect crawl over his naked chest but the effort it would require to crush it seemed too great. Live, little creature, whatever you are, he thought and laughed softly. He readjusted his position. The soft, warm silk of the mattress felt wonderful — like the skin of a woman. Perhaps later he would go to the haram and make love to Man Bai or Jodh Bai, though that also seemed too much effort, particularly since they too had scarcely seemed wholehearted in their welcome to him. In fact, when he thought about it he realised he hadn’t seen any of his wives or indeed his sons for days. But why should he when he was so content just lying here? For a second, Mehrunissa’s striking face was before him. But Suleiman Beg was probably right. She was just another woman. .

Still, it would be nice to have some company here, someone to share the shadowy, delightful twilight that was enveloping him. Suleiman Beg stubbornly refused his every invitation to join him. Even at the start when he’d begun experimenting with just a pellet or two, his milk-brother would not be tempted. Indeed, he’d even shown his disapproval. . Perhaps he should invite his half-brothers Daniyal and Murad? Murad had returned to Lahore a month ago, recalled by Akbar from his governorship for having had the envoy of an important vassal flogged for showing disrespect.

Murad had probably done nothing wrong, Salim mused, despite the stories that he had been drunk when he ordered the flogging. It was just that their father was impossible to please where his sons were concerned. Even had they been perfection in every way they would never have been able to live up to his expectations, his standards and his overwhelming confidence, bolstered by his years of unbroken success, that there was only one way to do things — his. It was typical that instead of sending himself or Daniyal to replace Murad as governor, Akbar had appointed a nephew of the toadying Abul Fazl. A second insect — it felt a little larger this time — was running up Salim’s arm. This time he didn’t grudge the exertion but crushed it, feeling liquid ooze from its scaly body. Pity it wasn’t Abul Fazl, he thought. How much fat could be squeezed from his corpulent frame? Then he closed his eyes and let his mind drift blissfully away.

Waking with a start, Salim saw that the sky above was dark and pricked with stars that seemed to be spiralling across the heavens. His head was throbbing and his mouth was so dry his tongue was sticking to his palate. Putting one hand on the stone balustrade, Salim hauled himself slowly to his feet. His legs, in fact his whole body, were trembling. He couldn’t be cold. It was May, just before the monsoon rains — the hottest time of the year. This had happened to him before but he knew how to remedy it. Clearly he’d not taken enough opium. Dropping to his knees he crawled across the shadowy balcony, which was lit only by a single oil lamp, groping for the wooden box. Where was it? Panic surged through him. What would he do if he couldn’t find it? He must have some more opium quickly. Then he remembered he had attendants. . tens of them. One shout would bring them running to his assistance from the corridor outside his apartments where he had ordered them to remain. But it was all right. . here was the box.

Reaching inside he found the jar, tipped the remaining pellets into his mouth and tried to swallow them but they stuck in his dry gullet — he’d forgotten to dissolve them. He felt himself choking and tried to spit the pellets out again, but they were too firmly lodged. Fighting for breath and peering desperately into the darkness he set out on hands and knees once more, trying to find the ewer of rosewater or the bottle of wine or even one of the brass bowls of marigold petals that stood on the balcony — anything with liquid in it. Just when he thought he was about to black out he felt the cold metal of the ewer. In his haste to grab it, he knocked it over. Bending forward he greedily lapped the water from the floor and at last managed to swallow the pellets down. He could hear a harsh, ragged rasping and it was some moments before he realised it was his own breathing.

Crawling slowly back towards the mattress, he lay down again, arms folded across his chest, hands tucked beneath his armpits, anything to try to get warm. But it was no good, he couldn’t stop shivering. Then he realised what it was — it wasn’t cold but fear. The darkness was filled with strange and terrible creatures. He could see them whirling around him trying to get close, to stupefy him with their fetid breath and steal him away to the dank, earthy graves they inhabited. He must get away before it was too late. . Somehow he managed to drag himself to his knees but then everything went black. .

‘Salim. . Salim. .’ Someone was wiping his face with a cool damp cloth but he twisted away. Suppose it was one of those creatures? ‘Stop fighting. It’s me, Suleiman Beg. .’ Salim felt a strong hand holding him down as the wiping resumed. Forcing his eyes open, he groaned as agonisingly bright sunlight hit them and clenched the lids shut again.

‘Drink this, now!’ Someone was none too gently forcing his mouth open and he felt the rim of something metal against his lower lip. Then his head was being tipped back and water was gushing down his throat. He felt he was drowning, but there was no mercy till at last he heard the clang of the metal cup as it was flung to the floor and rolled away.

Opening his eyes again, this time Salim managed to keep them open and found himself staring up into Suleiman Beg’s face. He had never seen his milk-brother so concerned or so strained. Salim sat up and tried to speak but couldn’t harness his body to do what he wanted. His lips wouldn’t move. He tried again and this time managed a little better, getting as far as ‘I feel’ before, suddenly and violently, a bitter, viscous fluid shot from his mouth. Ashamed, he turned aside from his friend and continued to retch on the floor until at last there was nothing left and his ribs felt as if he’d cracked them. ‘I’m sorry. .’

‘What are you apologising for? Being sick or the fact that you nearly killed yourself?’

‘What. . what. . do you mean? All I did was take opium. .’

‘How much?’

‘I don’t know. .’

‘And wine as well?’

Salim nodded. Putting a hand to his right temple, he found it sticky with congealed blood.

‘You struck your head on the stone balustrade. Look, there’s blood on it where you must have fallen against it,’ said Suleiman Beg, pointing at the red-brown smears.

Salim slowly shook his throbbing head. ‘I don’t remember anything about that. . All I recall is wanting more opium and not being able to find it. . then I was choking. .’

‘Your qorchi heard a crash. You’d forbidden him to enter your apartments so he came to find me. I found you sprawled on the balcony, shivering and shaking and bleeding. . I covered you with blankets and staunched your wound. Salim, you were lucky. .’

He stared at Suleiman Beg, trying to take in what he was saying, but he was starting to feel sick again.

‘I’ve been trying to warn you for weeks. Isn’t it enough to see the state your half-brothers are in? But you’ve descended faster, lower and more determinedly than even they’ve managed. You act irrationally. You lose your temper suddenly and violently. I heard you shouting at Khusrau a few days ago for no reason at all and saw how he looked at you. You’re alienating everyone around you.’ Suleiman Beg sounded really angry.

Salim remained silent, still fighting down the bile that was threatening to rise in his throat.

‘Why, Salim? Why do you do it?’

‘Isn’t the question why not?’ Salim replied at last. ‘At least opium and wine make me happy. I made a mistake about the quantity last night, that’s all. In future I’ll be more careful.’

‘You haven’t answered my question. Why are you setting out to ruin yourself?’

‘My father has no regard for me. My life has no purpose. Murad and Daniyal have the right idea. Why not enjoy myself and forget the rest?’

‘What do you mean by “the rest”? Your health, your sons, the future of your dynasty that used to matter so much to you? It’s the wine and the opium speaking, not you. Have the strength and courage to give them up and then see how you feel.’

Salim scrutinised Suleiman Beg’s flushed, earnest face. ‘I disappoint you, I know. Just as I disappoint my father. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry — do something about it. It’s a good thing your father’s been away on an inspection of Delhi and Agra and hasn’t seen you in this state. . You’ve got four weeks before he returns to Lahore. Use that time to cure yourself. You say your father despises you — well, don’t give him reason to.’

‘You’re a good friend, Suleiman Beg. . I know you mean well but you don’t understand how hard it is. My youth’s passing — my energies and talents are being wasted. .’

‘Don’t lose faith. You’ve told me so often what Shaikh Salim Chishti said to you. . that you wouldn’t have an easy life. . that he didn’t envy you. . but that one day everything you wanted would be yours. You should remember that. The Sufi was a wise man and your behaviour shames his memory.’

Salim could find no answer to what his milk-brother had said. ‘And you shame me, Suleiman Beg,’ he replied at last. ‘You are right. I mustn’t let self-pity destroy me. I will try to give up opium and drink, at least for a while, but I will need your help. .’

‘Of course. The first thing is to consult a hakim. I have already summoned one — a discreet man who is waiting outside.’

‘You were very sure you could convince me. .’

‘No, but I hoped I could.’

Half an hour later the hakim had finished pulling back Salim’s eyelids, checking the colour of his tongue and scraping it with a thin metal spatula, taking his pulse and running his hands over his body and back. During the examination he had said little but had looked increasingly concerned.

‘Highness,’ he said, closing up the leather bag in which he carried his instruments, ‘I won’t hide the truth from you. You tell me that last night you took a very large amount of opium. I can see that from your dilated eyes. But I can also tell that you drink to excess. You must give up both strong drink and opium, Highness, or you will become very ill. You might even die. Even now your hands are shaking.’

‘No!’ Salim held them out in front of him. He would show the hakim. But the doctor was right. They were trembling, his right hand worse than the left. However hard he tried, he couldn’t control the tremors.

‘Don’t despair, Highness. We are in time and you are young and strong. But you must do exactly as I say. Will you put yourself in my hands?’

‘How long will it take?’

‘That depends on you, Highness.’

Salim and Suleiman Beg were galloping along the banks of the Ravi beneath a pale November sun. Behind rode Salim’s huntsmen, every man looking cheerful at the prospect of a good day’s sport ahead. Suddenly a snipe flew out of the tall brown rushes. Salim rose in his stirrups and almost in a single movement reached for an arrow, fitted it to his double bow and fired. His hands were steady now and the snipe fell from the sky, wings fluttering futilely. It was six months since the night he had collapsed — six difficult months, particularly at first when his resolution had often faltered and he had returned to the twin consolations of opium and wine. However, he had struggled hard. Even now he occasionally lapsed, usually when his father had been particularly arrogant or dismissive. . But as he replaced his bow Salim vowed he would be strong, whatever the future held, whatever disappointments and setbacks he might suffer.